Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.
Warnings: Dark & Adult Themes, light bad language
Authors Note: I am soooo tired, but never mind that. This chapter might make the fans of the original books chuckle a bit; hopefully everyone else too. It's also the reason I had a fight in the last chapter, so there you go!
Please, read, enjoy, review, review! Thanks to all my readers so far!
...
Chapter Seven – Fears and Limits
...
Watson stifled a moan as he forced his legs to walk, and had to lean more weight than his pride liked onto Holmes' shoulder as they moved. His body was screaming so loud that it blotted out all other senses. He saw, felt and tasted nothing but pain.
"That really was an interesting experiment," Holmes chattered as they made their slow way up the alley. "Of course it never occurred to them to fight as a unit, which is no doubt a factor in our favour. And of course every single one of them had a negative IQ, because why else would they come back after a man already proven to be stronger and smarter than them. The behemoth especially will be shy about using his fists against a smaller man again, I daresay. He will certainly be on a liquid diet for the foreseeable future, unless of course the universe really does have a sense of humour and the man has dental insurance. Fighting multiple opponents is most difficult to arrange most days; the other members of my gym are quite perplexed when I suggest trying more than one man in the ring, but conventional thinkers are everywhere aren't they? Even in men who barely think at all. It reminds me of the American president...oh, I forget which one, whom sent his bodyguards to fight the aikido master during the occupation of Japan and, subsequently, said bodyguards practically had their kidneys kicked out of their ears. They never stopped to consider that if you spent your life fighting, extreme age just makes you more dangerous. I suppose that pack of brutes never stopped to consider a man with a bad leg and shoulder managing to fend off two attackers even in his state is not a poor fighter. I suppose that just reinforces my former point, that conventional thinking is far, far worse than mere criminality."
"Holmes," Watson managed to gasp. "You're babbling."
"Excuse me? I never babble," came the indignant rejoinder. "I have profoundly complex mind that continually requires expression, and language is just illogical and somewhat inefficient."
Watson felt amusement bubble unexpectedly in the swamp of pain. "I see." He deadpanned.
"Ah, you laugh at me," Holmes hauled him unceremoniously over the doorstep of the shadowy restaurant. "Fidelio, una tabella per due, per favour."
"Il sig. Holmes! Che cosa è accaduto?"
The conversation went back and forth in Italian over Watson's fuzzy head while he was steered towards a table and manipulated into a chair. At some point in the journey someone had been sent to fetch icepacks, the blessed numbness which Watson eagerly welcomed on one leg propped on an empty chair and across his shoulder. The interior of this place was shadowy – not dank exactly, or poorly lit, but the atmosphere of welcoming darkness haloed by tiny points of candle light, and someone playing the violin softly in some hidden corner. Waiters and other folk coming and going to their table vanished into the dark not two feet from them and only coloured orbs from the stained glass candle holders revealed that there were any tables aside from their own. There were some murmured conversation of other late night patrons, but otherwise it was a place of solitude and comfort and music that flowed expertly from the player's fingers. It was a human musician and not a recording, Watson was sure about that.
"They should bring the food out shortly," Holmes spoke gently into the dark, the only thing even remotely clear in the darkness. "Fidelio and his family have run this place for nearly a hundred and fifty years now. I solved some little quandary of theirs a few years hence, and as such am always welcome with whatever strange requests I might make."
Watson dug out the packet of analgesics out of his pocket and took possession of a glass of water that had been placed on the table. The pills were rather like putting out a bonfire with a pipette, but just taking them made him feel better. With the wondrous ice slowly soaking the heat and pain from his wounds, he slowly began to calm down from the attack and the aftermath.
"The violin is very good," Watson commented, rubbing a hand across his face.
Holmes gave a snort. "That's rather like saying Everest is very tall. Luici is ninety one years old, and he tells me he's been playing for ninety. He can neither read nor write. He's seen both World Wars, and took his violin to the second one. His whole life is music – he is, in fact, Music itself in a way; all the passion and colour and selfishness and pain and love. It would take a series of books to fully divulge his life story, he has been to so many places."
Watson craned his head to see if he could get a glimpse of this virtuoso, but the dark was too impenetrable. "You learned the violin from him?"
Holmes steepled his fingers. "I learned violin from various tutors and technicians and from hours of practice. I learned music from Luici." Was all he said on the matter.
Watson leaned back against the wall. "You lead an interesting life. I've known you about fifteen hours and I've already gone through one mysterious death, one breaking and entering, found a perfect place to stay and been accosted on the street."
"Oh now, Watson," Holmes spoke with mock aggravation. "You can't blame me for the latter. They were after you. Though you were indeed fortunate that you had my assistance."
"I'm just not sure if I could live with you, Holmes," Watson continued, because this had been nagging at him. "I don't know if you've noticed, by my nerves are as brittle as blown glass. I came back from a war. I don't know if I'm ready to more adventures just yet. I want quiet. I need quiet."
"And you think that saying no to sharing apartment with yours truly will guarantee this for you?" Holmes asked mockingly. "You're using reverse logic, Doctor. The kind of asinine reasoning of not taking pills so you won't get sick. Surely you can do better than that."
Watson turned to face the darkness, and said nothing.
"But of course if you come to live with me, you will become interested in living again. And once you become interested you will start to care, and we both know what happened the last time you cared."
Watson was so shocked he nearly fell off his chair. "That's not..."
"It is," Holmes insisted. "I'm not blaming you, because feeling is somewhat alien to my nature. But I will not let whatever hammered in anxieties the war left you with get in the way of what could be a perfect circumstance for me personally."
"Golly, you're such a compassionate, selfless person Holmes," Watson jabbed sarcastically, feeling defensive.
Holmes shrugged. "Just because it's a selfish reason doesn't mean it's not good for you either. Whatever this hesitation is, Watson, wherever it comes from, it's just a fear. Fears must be faced to be defeated. Whatever your other faults, I severely doubt bravery has ever been a problem for you."
Watson said nothing, because Holmes had him there. He was beginning to think this was going to be a recurring scenario.
"Besides, I did just save your life," Holmes shifted back to his usual overbearing tone. "Doesn't that earn me an irrevocable favour in your soldierly codes of honour?"
Watson snorted. "I saved your big brain from leaking out all over the pavement care of a pipe. The favours are cancelled out."
Holmes waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, hardly. The cane was useful, no doubt, but not necessary."
"So that wasn't you I saw jumping around like a headless chicken and taking to his heels when that brute came at you with a big metal stick?" Watson asked casually.
Holmes sputtered. "Headless chicken? Doctor, you have clearly taken a blow to the head. You were seeing things. I had things perfectly under control. I didn't see you managing quite so well. You were on your back most of the time." Holmes gave a disdainful twist of his mouth at this appraisal of fighting technique.
"I took on a guy with a bowie knife completely unarmed and being restrained. One little pipe and you were looking for the nearest exit," Watson scoffed.
"In the first, that pipe was not little, you observation blind cad; and in the second, who, exactly had a bloodletting and needed icepacks afterwards? Oh, that's right, it was you," Holmes flicked a contemptuous hand. "No strategy, no redirection of forces, just plain old juvenile brute strength. That's the army mindset all over – when all else fails, hit it with a bigger hammer."
Watson laughed. He couldn't stop himself. Holmes cutting observations were sharp and merciless, but for some reason still as funny as hell.
Holmes seemed rather gratified by Watson's sudden releasing of tension. "So, now we come to the end of the intended experiment."
"We have?" Watson asked, still amused.
"Yes indeed. You remember at the start of the evening, you needed the opportunity to find out if I would make a suitable roommate for your needs. Please," he flourished a hand. "Do elucidate your observations on my august person forthwith." A light of challenge was in his sharp grey eyes.
"Alright," Watson settled back in his chair. "Ahem – Sherlock Holmes, his limits."
"Ah, a title," was the sardonic observation from across the table.
"Knowledge of literature – nil."
"And your reasoning?"
"You asked me who Harry Potter was."
"Well, who is Harry Potter and what the deuce does he have to do with literature?"
Watson nodded. "My point exactly. Knowledge of philosophy – nil."
"Now that is unfair. I expound on many philosophies."
"Yes, you do. Except they are all yours."
"So? It still counts," Holmes rotated a long hand on a thin wrist. "Pray continue."
"Knowledge of astronomy – nil. I actually had to explain to you that the Earth revolves around the sun and turns on an axis, which has been established fact for about, oh, four hundred years or so now."
"I can't imagine why that's important," Holmes sniffed. "There is only a limited amount of space in my brain attic, and I can only allow the most pertinent information to remain."
Watson stared at him, before continuing. "Knowledge of politics – feeble. You seem to know about the basic workings, but you still thought Margaret Thatcher was the prime minister."
"You should be glad I could even remember that," Holmes snorted. "I could actually care less about who runs this cesspool."
"Knowledge of Botany – variable," Watson wobbled a flat hand. "You seem to know poisonous materials at a glance, and frankly I did not need to know that about common parsley. You don't seem to have any knowledge of practical gardening."
"I can't see why that should be clear to you," Holmes protested, but he was watching Watson with interest.
"You said the front of the flat looked untidy. They were bulbs, Holmes, they're supposed to look like that some of the year."
"That seems very inefficient."
Watson sighed. "Knowledge of Geology – practical, but limited. You do a great amount of forensic observation of every bit of mud, dirt, dust and ash in London, judging from the way you tracked the train passengers every move that day, but you wouldn't know a geode from a piece of granite."
"I still think I have the advantage of that equation. Why would I need to know how a lump of stone formed a billion years before it was used to stove someone's head in? I'd say that latter is the real event."
"Knowledge of Chemistry – profound. You do it for a living, evidently; you came up with a test that had to be patented; there is of course the knowledge of poisons mentioned earlier - and you could rattle off a list of nearly thirty separate chemical components of a woman's cosmetics off the top of your head in that train."
Holmes just grinned, and said nothing.
"Knowledge of Anatomy – Accurate, but unsystematic. You know enough to hit nerve points while fighting and general systems and reactions of the body. Stamford mentioned you go down to beat cadavers in the morgue when you're bored to test the effects of various weapons, and apparently you've written in reputable journals about it."
"I won't be trying surgery anytime soon, but I have my little facts stored away," Holmes nodded with mock humility.
"Knowledge of Sensational Literature – immense. I think I've heard stories from every age about every murder filled street from here to Baker Street, and I have no doubt there's more. You seem to know every foul deed perpetrated in the city for the last century."
"My chosen field of interest. To be fair, many of them are immensely similar," Holmes commented, taking a bottle of wine from a waiter as they came over with the food.
"You play the violin."
"Really doctor, I did just tell you that," Holmes dismissed this observation.
"You are an expert boxer and fencer, with some as yet undefined wrestling technique and something else which is quite close to fencing."
"Singlestick," Holmes supplied, pouring a pair of glasses.
Watson blinked. "Singlestick, as in the British Navy singlestick? As in last used in the last century, singlestick?"
Holmes looked mildly affronted. "It's a perfectly workable technique. Eskrima has been about the place since at least the 1500's, so you have no right to snobbery."
Watson grinned. "Last but not least, you have a practical working knowledge of British law, judging by the way you cautioned the thugs on their right to silence and on the adverse inferences of keeping silent therein."
"It's convoluted and fraught with idiocies but, alas, is the only one we have," Holmes was stoic in his disappointment. "I must say, Doctor, you have an uncomplicated observational faculty that, while you may miss the pertinent details, nevertheless gives you an accurate assessment of the obvious."
Watson refused to be riled. "If I am wrong, please let me know," was his mild retort.
"Oh you weren't wrong, it just that you took a cup of knowledge when an ocean was available to you. Oh well, one must accept the shortcomings of others as best one can."
"I'm with you there," Watson nodded ironically.
"So, what opinions have you formed of my profession?" Holmes tapped his fingertips on table imperiously, demanding an answer.
"Forensics, forensic chemistry, psychological profiling, criminal behaviour, criminal history, methods of death, plus the police call you in to consult," Watson listed carefully all the professional attributes noted so far. "You talk of solving problems, seeing clients and you called crime your field of interest... my uncomplicated observational faculty is seeing a certain pattern here. The only thing I can think is your some sort of," Watson grinned and winked. "Private detective."
Holmes nearly smacked his head on the table in despair. "Watson, you were doing so well. It is typical of you that the instant you show some glimmer of proper reasoning you shine it in completely the wrong direction."
Watson, who had thought that was a fairly probable choice, merely raised his eyebrows.
Holmes held up a thunderous finger. "I" said he. "Am no two penny chaser of adulterers and petty thieves. I do not get up in the morning to put my not inconsiderable intellect to the task of chasing stupid criminals for their even more asinine victims. Mine is not the world of the real estate con or the industrial espionage. I do not wander around with a camera to take the doldrums recordings of whatever scandal some upper crust dimwit needs to have on some even pettier rival, nor ensure discretion for the dimwit actually in the scandal. Do you really think that little of my extraordinary mental powers? I am wounded."
Watson responded to this offended outrage with a roll of his eyes. "Holmes, when I wound you; trust me, you'll know."
Holmes continued his diatribe. "Many people are experts on the many aspects of crime, my dear Watson. I am an expert on Crime as an entire phenomenon. It's past, present and even to some extent it's future, the science and the nature of the whole thing. How it starts, how it grows, what forces push and pull it, the how's, the why's. Many may be experts on one or two aspects of crime and it's nature, but I venture to claim not one of them can connect all the aspects together the way it has within my mind, into the thing and the whole of the thing. Those experts may be able to say anything with certainty within their own narrow confines, but when a wider view is needed, when the detectives on the street cannot find a solution because their thinking is too limited and too mundane, they call me. Through my complete understanding, and my own little methods, I find answers where all others have failed."
Watson looked as the sheer super nova of belief and confidence radiating from Holmes and thought to himself, the man is an atheist. He couldn't possibly believe in any intangible god as much as he believes this. "So you are a...?" Watson prodded.
"I am a consulting detective, and I'll wager the only one in England," Holmes spoke with triumph.
"A fact I personally thank God for."
Watson jumped as he realised Inspector Lestrade was standing by the table, looking fit to be tied.
"Inspector, do take a seat," Holmes gestured invitingly. "Wine?"
"I'm on duty; and thank you for that, by the way," Lestrade muttered as he sat down. "I was on my way home when a call came over the police scanner advising of a street assault involving a gang of armed thugs, one police surgeon and one consultant. I had to see that." Lestrade reached to the radio on his belt. "Cooper, send one of those paramedics to Marcini's will you?" There was a crackling affirmative reply before he put the radio away. "I can see the blood on your pant leg, Doctor. Anything else we need to know?"
"Many, many things, Lestrade, though none that have any bearing on this particular case," Holmes replied unctuously.
"Have you two drunk any of that yet?" Lestrade asked on the wine bottle.
"Not yet," Watson affirmed.
"Well don't, until you have a breath test," Lestrade ordered, taking the glasses out of reach. "This will be much, much simpler if there no question of inhibition on your part. Your statements, please; and Holmes, I'm imposing a five thousand word limit on yours."
They went over the facts briefly but accurately while a paramedic arrived and did standard checks and other medical things with needles and swabs. A constable came with the breathalyser and a camera. The procedure wheel turned, slowly but surely. The medic pronounced Watson's cut shallow and not serious, as the brace had taken the worst of the blow. Lestrade asked them to come into the station the next day, and get the injuries properly catalogued. Watson's cane was taken for evidence, much to his chagrin; he was kindly loaned one by the paramedic, a foam and aluminium affair that just didn't feel right at all.
Lestrade grunted as he pushed his pen into his notepad for the final time. "Well gentlemen, I am slightly impressed you managed to even survive, and extremely impressed you are mostly unscathed. This most likely won't go to trial with the evidence you've given, but we'll need signed statements and so on from you to clad the case in iron. And yes, I do mean from you as well Mr Holmes," he glared at the detective who merely smiled at him innocently. "Doctor, I'll let Dr Nokey know you'll be off tomorrow at least. Oh don't worry," he added when Watson moved to protest. "This'll be all over Scotland Yard in the next hour. Take the day, it'll help avoid the interrogations from your co-workers."
Watson conceded dismally on that point, much to Holmes amusement.
Watson had an interesting night, following that unique evening. They had left Lestrade at Marcini's after finishing up their meals, the Inspector dismally chewing on a breadstick while he waited for a late takeaway dinner. Watson prayed fervently that the small man would not take mortal offense over the fact they – or rather, Holmes – had left him with the bill. Watson himself had only realised no money had changed hands at the door of his room, much to Holmes glee. The eccentric man wished him a good night while Watson choked, and left chuckling and humming to himself.
Watson had been only in the mood to sleep at the restaurant, but once alone and showered and cleaned, found his brain fairly revving with energy. He considered reading a novel, but rejected that almost immediately. He needed to actually do something other than absorb words.
That's when his eyes fell on the journal.
One of the psychologists at the evacuation hospital in Germany had given it to him. Get it out of you, he had recommended. Watson had ignored this, because he barely had anything in him at that point – he barely had a heart to beat or a mind to think. There were no words left inside the hollow that the bullets and the blood had left behind. Just the ghosts, the goddamn ghosts, a cemetery of can't, won't, and not anymore's, the spectre of an erased identity.
But now they bubbled up like an aquifer, pure, clean, soothing. Holmes' words, however self-centred, had broken through the bedrock and brought all the buried things to the surface.
Watson wrote. He wrote about coming home, he wrote about Drebber and the mystery and the city. He wrote about Sherlock Holmes, that half-mad harlequin and unmatchable mind dressed in the body of scarecrow and the manner of a petulant child, who had discovered the method for turning all the basest and shameful elements, the meaninglessness, the ugliness and the futility and the selfishness into order and logic and rationality, who took the raw mishmash of sights and the discordant din of noise and made instead a painting and a symphony, ludicrous and precious – and priceless.
Watson realised he wouldn't trade that worldview for anything.
Watson wrote until his hand cramped and he switched sides, he wrote until dawn broke over the city and until the morning papers came out on the street, he wrote until he ran out of pages and started scrounging for any other scraps he could find, he wrote until he realised he was writing about the war, all those faces and friends he'd left buried there while his ghost arrived at a London airport. He wrote until the tears soaked the pages.
Maybe he really was oblivious, like Holmes had said. Until the genius and poked and worried and prodded him and sliced open all his silences and secrets, until he'd been challenged and infuriated and amused by the eccentric detective, until he'd been actually emotionally engaged, Watson had completely failed to realise that even further back than Afghanistan, he'd felt nothing at all.
Now the flood was drowning him, and it was an epiphany. Forget bulwarks of compassion, forget focusing on the positive. Don't ask how my attitude will help me. Ask how can I help.
It was cathartic. Watson slept, and for once he didn't dream.
...
End Chapter Seven